Dreaming With Your Eyes Closed
by michellemybelle25
Summary: Instead of letting her go with Raoul, Erik makes Christine stay with him. In an attempt to understand what she truly wants, she proposes a game of pretend: to pretend to love each other. But where does the game end and reality begin?
1. Chapter 1

I do not own the characters; they are from various versions of the Phantom of the Opera.

Hello! I have a new story for you. I haven't posted in a few weeks, but I am going to try to keep posting more stories every so often as I get the chance. Hopefully, this will compensate in the meantime. Anyway, this particular story is an epilogue story told from Christine's point of view, but it revolves around the idea of Erik holding her to her choice and making her stay. I hope that you guys enjoy it!

SUMMARY: Instead of letting her go with Raoul, Erik makes Christine stay with him. In an attempt to understand what she truly wants, she proposes a game of pretend: to pretend to love each other. But where does the game end and reality begin?

"Dreaming With Your Eyes Closed"

That night he had a nightmare. It was not the first time I'd been the solitary audience to this uncontrollable event; he had had one the very first night I had spent under his roof, and I was equally certain that he suffered their traumas quite routinely, even though after that first time, he had been more careful to keep me oblivious to their frequent occurrences. I could never have said how he had achieved such a feat when I vividly recalled being awoken that first time by unbridled shouts of a mental terror I had no concept of; perhaps he slept with a pillow over his disfigured face to muffle the screams. All I knew for certain as I darted up beneath the covers of my bed on this night already over-laden with traumas was that I had not born witness to this sort of pitiable suffering in long enough to be uncertain how to react.

I could remember his response during the one and only similar incident; he had made me promise never to come upon him again when he was lost to that state. He had almost killed me that night. Unwittingly so, of course. He had not recognized me when consumed in that torture, nightmare world, and to him, I had been no different than the ones assaulting him. That night had been the only time he had ever put his hands on me in a malevolent way, unintentionally but enough to keep me to hold true to my promise, even if I had never had to prove it.

But this night was different entirely, and the promise of a gullible girl hardly felt worthy of holding. That had been a vow from before, and now…well, our world was upside down, wasn't it? And I was no longer sure which rules still applied.

Another cry from outside of the sanctity of my room brought me out of my warm bed and tiptoeing along the carpeted floor with bare feet and a nightdress that tangled about my legs. Was it any wonder that he was suffering a nightmare on this night of all nights? Considering every trauma that had been endured, it was a surprise to me that I myself wasn't equally a victim to such internal masochism. My life was practically over, my burden the greatest of us all to bear, and yet my dreams had been calm and undisturbed with rest as a welcome escape. I had committed myself to the devil; perhaps my mind realized that dreams were all that were left for me now.

A lingering fire from the living room hearth called to me, and I noted with the gasped sob echoing down the hall to my ears that Erik had not gone in to bed and must have fallen asleep before its comforting glow. Alone…, when I myself had taken to my room hours before. Alone, when he was not supposed to be alone any longer. Wasn't that why he had forced me to stay with him to begin with? Wasn't that the very reason that he had put on his audacious display this very night and had made me choose to remain to save Raoul from death? He wanted a companion; he wanted to no longer _be alone_. I had thought my word had given him that; obviously, he had not felt the same.

With trepid footfalls, I came to stand in the living room's threshold and sought my once angel teacher, slightly nervous as to what I would find. As suspected, he was asleep in his chair before the flickering embers of the fire, but even though sleep typically meant peace, there was no peace to this scene. He was in agony; it was blatantly announced along features partially concealed by his mask, the created creases in the visible flesh forced taut, the tears randomly escaping through eyes screwed shut. My focus traveled over every telltale detail and settled on his hands. Hands capable of murder, they were the part of him that had always posed the most threat to me; deceptively designed, they could at times be considered as beauty brought to life when music was their only creation. How often had I fallen victim to their guise and grown enamored by their grace? But now that was not even an inkling of a thought in my head, not while they were clawing and clutching with furtive desperation at the sides of his chair, knuckles white and flexed, fingers lost in leather material and beyond view. Those hands were a weapon as deadly as a sword or gun, and even as I naively crept closer to this scene of torture, I kept my guard raised and a good deal of attention always upon their fixed shapes, knowing that one wrong step or movement could have them about my throat instead. The last time only some sort of unacknowledged miracle had saved me and had woken him before I had become a lifeless corpse beneath his unintended fury, but I had carried the bruises of the attack for weeks after, hiding their presence beneath high collars from anyone's observance, most especially Erik's. He had known guilt enough; to let him see the damage…. I had feared that it would have broken him.

I was hesitantly lingering a modest distance from his chair, prepared to jump and dart back if necessary as another whimper escaped his subconscious, his body shifting about the leather cushions without comfort. "Erik," I called softly, tentatively studying him for any response to my voice, but he was so deeply lost that it made no impression. "Erik…."

What to do…. I was realizing that I had put myself at his mercy whether he was consciously aware of it or not. Calling out to him was going to do nothing to wake him. I was going to have to be more aggressive, and merely with the idea, my stomach fluttered with the usually avoided trepidation I still held for who and what he was. Perhaps, as sense argued, I should just let him be; let him _suffer_, my heart corrected sharply, and I knew I couldn't do that. For every rift between us in these past months, I could not attempt to remain aloof and return to my bed knowing that he was being tortured just beyond my reach.

Adamantly determined, I closed the remaining gap between us, my nightdress brushing his knees with my nearness, and extended a trembling hand through the air in the middle until it came to rest with a feather-light touch upon his shoulder. "Erik," I called again, louder this time with the jerk of my gripping hand to aid my effort in popping the bubble he was encompassed in. "Wake up, Erik."

Abruptly enough to startle me and make me recoil with arms that enfolded protectively against my chest, he jolted upon the chair and gasped so harshly that it seemed as though he was unable to breathe in that instant before blue and green eyes shot open. He just stared at me, raking a feverish gaze over my presence, my guarded posture, and widened, hesitant expression fringed in looming fears I did not want to entertain but could not control.

"Christine?" Shock was fading with the dissipating clouds of dreams, and on its heels came a bitter rising of that temper I knew so well. "What are you doing here?"

At first, I was unsure how to answer him, wondering if he was still confused from being roused so suddenly. What was I doing there; my tongue was bit to contain the sharp answer that I was a prisoner and sacrifice for Raoul's life per his own inventions, that if he was so unaccustomed to houseguests, he should not have forced me to stay! But the haziness of sleep was no longer in his eyes and the question was still put forward. And chastising my assumptions, I replied steady as I could, "You were having a nightmare."

"Yes, and I recall that you were never supposed to approach me in that state," he snapped, leaning forward in his chair and setting his elbows upon his knees. He didn't want me to be able to tell that he was violently shaking, but there was little avoiding its evidence. Shift about all he liked, his entire frame was victim to its tremors.

"Erik." I tried to seem unthreatening and gentle, refraining from a touch even when instinct begged for exactly that act, to touch a shoulder, an arm, anything to grant him some sort of human contact and comfort. Surely solace was the least I could give, and yet my own hands would not comply with my brain, thinking for themselves, it seemed, and clenching fitfully against my body as a viable barrier between us instead. "I was just trying to-"

"Get yourself killed?" he finished for me, and I could not offer protest to fears I shared. "I realize that our relationship must now be redefined, but I was unaware that we were going to toss out all of our past's stipulations. The last time, did I not awaken with your throat between my hands? One would presume you had learned your lesson enough not to repeat your folly. Or was that what you were hoping for? Your predicted outcome, your throat between my hands, you dead by my own doing. A fitting punishment for my every crime against you. You would rather die than be mine, and if I had been the one to do it, it would be the one and only sin on my soul to incite guilt."

It actually bothered me that I could understand such a ludicrous train of thought. To a man like Erik with a life that had included nothing but pain and disappointment interlaced in every single, breathing moment, that would seem the logical and even expected explanation. And I could call him absurd to conclude such nonsense, but he'd think it anyway.

So in lieu of protesting against a brick wall, I tentatively took a seat upon the soft couch beside his chair, curling up on its cushions and leaning idly on the armrest as he watched my every motion with fixed eyes. In a voice I had to manipulate to keep unwavering, I instead bid, "Tell me what you were dreaming about."

He laughed at me, mocking and grating in its essence, but I remained firm in my resolve, giving no crack away. "Why in the world would you want to know about it?"

Why indeed…; I knew why. It astounded me that between the two of us, I was the one accepting the turn of fate thrown in my direction. This was my future, one I had taken upon myself no matter what the impetus for its choice had been. I didn't want to be a prisoner here in a life that was the equivalent of existing in a jail cell with no one but a detached warden as my companion. I was determined to have more than that, and dwelling on what I had lost had never been an option. How could it have been when a part of me had always known that this would be where I would end up? That, fight as we might, Raoul and I were doomed from the first moment? Who could go up against the almighty Opera Ghost and win? This was the fate I had assumed would eventually be mine, and denying it was a waste of energy.

"Was it a memory?" I pushed, unshrinking beneath the power of those unnerving eyes. "Are your nightmares events that happened, or are they ones you feared could come to pass?"

Erik was shaken by my demeanor; even if he didn't want me to know it, it was obviously etched on whatever features lay unhidden by the mask. And I think it was only because I surprised him so completely that he answered me. "It's always memories…." As soon as he said so, he cringed to himself, and I knew how much he did not want to seem weak in my presence.

"And this particular one?" I probed, unable to keep the compassion from my voice. And it was not fabricated. How could it be? No matter our sordid relationship; to know the extent he'd been made to suffer in his life bewildered any hostility within my body and transformed it back to the care and concern that I had always carried for an angel.

Huffing his distaste, he coldly replied, "It should be of no surprise to you that I've endured many vicious beatings because of my face. Before I learned to defend myself with ropes, of course. As a boy, I was frequently assaulted by those whose paths I crossed. They always assumed that my face made me some sort of demon, even the devil himself. If only that were true! I would have smote them with fire and flame before they ever dared to lay a single hand upon me! The devil would never stand for such degradation with little more than a whimper. And that was all I gave them, a whimper. They'd knock me into unconsciousness long before I'd have ever given them the pleasure of a scream."

I knew that the horror of his story must have been clear on my face, and perhaps that encouraged him to want to shock me further. Perhaps knowing that he was inciting my emotions, even if at the moment they were only astonished pity and that constant compassion, pleased some part of his longing heart. It may not have been love, but it was genuine.

"The nightmare you only just interrupted," he continued, watching me carefully all the while, "was one I've had before; it's one of those memories I only wish I could forget. In my waking hours, it's possible, but sleep is never that kind. I wasn't much beyond a boy when it happened. You have to understand; I knew my limitations. By then, I was well-versed at how to get by with as little regard from the rest of the world as possible. But what I hadn't realized was that even if I wasn't interacting with the world, the world took notice of me. I always ran my errands at night when the city streets were nearly empty. Well, one night they waited for me, a group of random individuals whose sole common thread was that they'd all seen me and were intrigued by my existence. It was this damn mask. No matter how I try to hide the horror of my face, masks, capes, scarves, the mysteriousness I ignorantly incite can't be ignored by the curiosity of mankind. They saw the mask and had to know what lay beneath it. Evidently, it's intriguing; I myself don't see the appeal. If I saw a man traipsing about in a mask, I wouldn't waste my time to care why he did. But other human beings can't stifle that inner voice of curiosity." He paused a breath, eyes bearing into mine, and he never needed to say it; we both knew I was equally a member of his stereotype. Was I truly still being held accountable for my past folly as cruelly as his biting glare made me believe? Considering that that one event had led us through a maze of only pain and to the place we now were, I reluctantly concluded that he had every right to hate me for it for the rest of eternity; it made me little better than those persecuting him in his dreams.

Desperate to push the conversation onward, I dared to ask in a voice that trembled in spite of my enacted bravery, "What did they do to you, Erik?"

He spoke the rest of his tale with utter detachment as if it was anyone's life but his own. "They cornered me in an alleyway, a dozen of them, and they stole my mask away, making it seem like some sort of playful joke until they saw my face, of course. Then it was the same as always, and I was called all sorts of horrible obscenities and beaten half to death. It's never any different; that is the usual outcome even when time and place are changed. I woke up in an alley, covered in blood, bones fractured, ribs broken. I found my mask and crawled back into the shadows, vowing never to come out again. Can you now understand why I did not wish to share this story with you? And now you're crying as you hear it, and your tears are pointless. I am not that weak and pathetic young man anymore. It is only in my dreams that I am still their victim."

The tears were chilled on my cheeks, announcing their presence but only after he'd drawn my attention to them. I hadn't even realized. But to envision this man who was such an integral part of my life assaulted so brutally and left for dead pierced straight to my heart, stabbing through compassion and pity to a deeper layer within me. And I hadn't wanted it or willed it to happen. I just found myself caring with a desperation and intensity as if I had shared in the very horrors he had recited so candidly.

My voice was little more than a choked whisper, but I intently demanded, "And have you never known even a single moment of happiness? Has there truly only ever been pain in your life?" Maybe I already had an idea what his answer would be; maybe I just wanted to hear it spoken aloud to deafen my ears to the horrors I had only just heard and override their cruelty with some sort of peace.

"Happiness…?" he breathed softly, and I saw it in the mismatched depths of those eyes, that telltale flicker of warmth as they trailed my features with his every slow breath. And I shivered; Lord help me, I couldn't stop it from happening or denounce its presence! It felt so natural, the inherent response to a look so tender that I yearned to be deserving of it. "The only taste of happiness I've ever had, brief as it was, was in the time I was an angel to you. Do you even recall it now, Christine? After all of the darkness in between? We adored each other then even if it was under the pretext of a lie. And…I was happy."

Even as I contemplated his words, I was shaking my head. "But it wasn't enough; it was never enough for either of us. That was why you had to give up the guise of an angel and reveal yourself to be a man. …And perhaps we could have known happiness in between, but I…."

Every second of the true agony that was our story appeared in a rush in those eyes of his, stealing softness and warmth and turning them cold, temper flaming anew, and my gaze lingered on those deceptive hands as they fisted upon each armrest of his chair with their threat. In a sudden growl, he snapped at me, "I have no need to ask you why you chose as you did tonight. I took the 'why' out of your hands and dragged it as far away from you as I could. But what I am curious to know is how you can talk to me this way, sit in my presence even, and act so convincingly like you feel anything but hatred for me. I took your entire life away from you tonight. Why don't you hate me for that, Christine? Especially after you've spent so long running from me as if I was indeed the devil sent to steal your soul. Why are you here in this room waking me from nightmares and asking about my life? You should be cursing the fact that I exist, that I lived through those attacks to one day condemn you. But you…you sit there and cry for me instead…. Why don't you hate me?" he suddenly roared, fiercely enough to make me jump. "Or is this all a part of your plan to eventually escape? Pretend to care about the monster until he lets his guard down and then find a way out of this living nightmare that you are trapped in?"

"No," I finally protested, weak as I knew it must sound. "I chose to stay with you, Erik; I have no intention of leaving."

"Of course," he sarcastically retorted, "because if you did, you know I would go after your lover and this time follow through on my threats." In a shout so severe that I trembled with the power of it, he commanded, "Be cold to me, Christine! Hate me. Try your damnedest to escape this hell I've condemned you to. But don't you dare act as if you care for me! Now go to your room and don't come out again even if I am screaming in horror! I don't need you or want you! Go!"

To say that his words did not strike me with a genuine wave of pain would have been a blatant lie. I tried not to let it show on my face, to act as detached as he wanted me to, but tears streamed through to betray my countenance, blurring my image of that enraged, masked face, and I made no move to swipe them away. I simply obeyed like the weak child I preferred to be, falling victim yet again to my lack of bravery as if it was an illness stealing soul and body with its onslaught. And it wasn't a fear of Erik and his fluctuating temper. No, I wasn't afraid of Erik's rage; I was afraid of his love. Love was the constant catalyst to my cowardice, an inability to accept it, an inability to return it. And even after the events this night and a flicker of the strength I could possess as witnessed in one solitary kiss, I followed the path of faintheartedness instead. And why? Because it was easier, because being brave would have stirred the waters around us into a tidal wave and would have born too many casualties. Being brave meant moving beyond my chosen boundaries and restrictions and into a foreign land controlled by the instability of emotions. Dear God, the very concept terrified me!

As I claimed the sanctuary of my room, slamming my door closed to the surging of emotion's vigorous drumbeat, I buried myself away beneath the covers of my bed and let memory assault me with its laden guilt. A kiss, …a kiss; I had broken my wall long enough to give him a kiss. It was an action I would rather have forgotten than acknowledge and interpret. I had never kissed anyone, not me myself; _Raoul_ had kissed _me_, but I had never before been the instigator. And to have such a dominant role in such an intimate contact shamed me in some ridiculous way. I hadn't known what I was doing, nearly as inexperienced as my partner in this indiscretion, and to consider that I had made the decision to do it, there right in front of Raoul, my supposed fiancé; it could either be called bold and brazen or immature and far too impulsive to have any viable credibility.

A kiss…, and I would have taken it back if I could do it over again. It made me seem like I knew what I wanted when really I didn't know at all.

I wasn't awakened again that night; no more screams, no more horrors of the past. But I myself suffered a nightmare, albeit one that was endured in silence and tears that I awoke to find saturating the material of my pillow around my face. It startled me by how real the dream had felt, almost so much so that I believed it at first with conscious' return. In the midst of its spell, we had been reliving the previous night and its traumas, only this time after a solitary kiss, Erik had let me leave with Raoul, insisting that we go and abandon him alone. Raoul and I had won, beating the Opera Ghost's power to be free, but I had never felt more defeated in my life, as if I had lost everything instead.

Erik…; I needed to see him as if it was a necessity to continue surviving. Hastily dressing and readying myself for the day, I impatiently fled my room, never giving a thought to the unpleasant terms we had ended upon. No, no, I had to see him and prove to the wisps of a dream still fluttering in my brain that he was not a broken shell of a human being, alone and empty in the wake of my departure. No, no, even if he currently abhorred every aspect of my existence, he wasn't alone. I was with him; I had chosen him, and even without my bravery to assure conviction, he had to understand that I had made the right choice.

I rushed room to room in the underground house, but to my aghast horror, he was nowhere to be found, and I was locked within the meager confines. Not even a note was left to at least convince my addled brain that he would return at some unknown point to end my current anxiety. Rationale knew that he wouldn't just abandon me, but it was yet fuzzy and muddled, giving rise to doubts as I paced in my agitation in haphazard treks in one room and then the next, unable to keep still.

I was on the verge of insanity a little later when I finally heard the clicked turn of the lock and raced to the opening front door with feet that barely touched the ground in my hastiness. The shock on Erik's masked features in the instant he saw me was entirely justifiable; I likely looked as if I had had the wits scared out of me, wide-eyed, pale, catching his arm in my shaking hands even as I rarely ever invited a physical contact from him on my own.

"Christine, what is it? What's happened?" he demanded with avid worry, his free hand never hesitating to land atop the backs of mine as I clutched at his sleeve with desperate fingers.

"You…you left me," I stammered, realizing that I had no answer for him that would not appear fringed in madness.

But he shook his head, skepticism still alive, and insisted, "I didn't leave you; I was never beyond the catacombs. You were always safe, _petite_."

Safe? I wasn't concerned with safe so much as alone. But I did not tell him so as I forced deep breaths to return some semblance of calm and asked instead, "Why? …Why were you gone?"

"I needed space to ponder; here in this house…," he hesitated, watching me carefully before he revealed, "your presence permeates through every room and often makes it impossible for logical thought. I think too much with my heart when you are near."

"Oh, …and…what exactly did you conclude?" In my mind were those infuriating images from a traumatic dream and the rising fear that its most significant points were about to be brought to life.

A breath escaped him in a huff, and for an instant, I truly believed that he was seeking the most polite and undamaging words to crush his own heart with the morality of the right thing to do. I had to beg myself not to stop him from replying, to wait and find some semblance of calm, even as his piercing stare drifted from mine to inquisitively study our intersecting hands upon his sleeve. "I must apologize to you, Christine, …for a great many things but most especially for last night."

Here it was, my anxiety argued. He was about to let me go, and I instinctively fisted my hands tighter into the material of his coat as if my grip was unbreakable. "Don't," was all I could manage to utter.

"I treated you terribly," he continued. "You meant to be kind, and whether it was sincere or not, I should not have been so cruel to you in return."

Oh God! I nearly cried in relief, and I knew I smiled. I could not contain its appearance as I gaped. "Your nightmare…. You mean about your nightmare."

Erik was suddenly regarding me oddly, and I felt the smallest laugh escape my lips before I could stop it. "What in the world is wrong with you, Christine? Are you feeling ill?"

"No, no," I muttered, grinning yet. "Please go on."

The only brow I had view of arched suspiciously, but he indulged my request and said, "As I was walking the catacombs, I came to realize something, as morbid as it is. I don't have much time left with you; I should not be squandering it by the whims of my temper."

My smile evaporated as suddenly as it had appeared, and I shook my head. "Don't have much time…? What do you mean? I…I don't understand."

But his expression was strangely gentle on mine even as he explained, "It's the reality of the situation, of course. The Vicomte will come for you; I have little doubt of that. He would never just leave you with me despite the threats and ultimatums I laid in place. It is only a matter of time."

"Then we'll leave this place before he can," I heard myself offer even when sense wondered why I was speaking at all. Raoul coming…, I hadn't truly considered it. I was so sure my decision would be permanent, an ending and a new path I had set into place, no matter the impetus for its creation, but I had the sudden revelation that Erik was right. Raoul would indeed come for me; he loved me almost as much as Erik did. He would believe he was being my knight, dashing and gallant. He could never understand that I had wholeheartedly chosen danger and inevitably the fire and damnation that came with it.

My unconventional offer was received by the nearest to a smile I had seen Erik give in months as he pried his sleeve free of my unwilling grasp and replied, "I mean to do right by you in the end; that's what I've come to realize. You made the noble sacrifice, and you should be rewarded for it, not punished. …You deserve the life you truly wanted, Christine, not darkness and shadows and nightmares. When the Vicomte comes, I will pose no further battle. I only ask that we not continue on these regretful terms until then. …I can't bear to spend what little time I have left blaming and hurting each other, not when my future consists of only these moments to sustain me."

I felt sick at that moment, soul sick. My choice, one I had had to collect bravery to make, was about to become invalid. I realized that I was currently walking some unscathed landscape between two paths; one was the easy, weak path I had been traveling with Raoul, one where I made no impact, not even any footsteps upon its surface, only his in existence, and the other was one I had never been upon before, one with Erik, one where I would be an equal if I only had the courage to do what I must to put myself upon its trail. One moment of bravery wasn't enough, not with all of the other factors playing their part to weigh me down and hold me back. If I wanted to be upon a path with Erik, I needed to quit being the acquiescing passenger steered in every direction and take charge of my life, as terrifying as that seemed to me.

At present under the power of those mismatched eyes seeking so urgently to read my face, I knew I would fall to my weakness again, unable to find a reply to him as he truly believed he was granting me the means to my happy ending. If only he was! I wanted to beg him at that moment to be brave for me! To hold me to my choice because that made my role the easy one to play, one where I never needed to consider emotions and their intensity, where he kept me where I truly wanted to be and I never had to admit that I was not there by his coercion. But I did not say a word…; I just nodded absently as if agreeing to his terms when I actually resented their presence.

Even if I knew otherwise, congenial was his preferred emotion of choice, and as such, the rest of our day was spent rather amicably. Its essence was contrived; how could it not be, considering how awfully we had hurt each other over and over again? But we weren't dealing with contrition or repairing bonds. We were acting as if a rift had never happened to begin with. And even if it was a lie, it was almost delightful to play along.

In truth, this was not a new relationship for us. We had held to something akin to such closeness months ago, before Raoul had appeared in our lives. It had grown out of the revelation of his angelic lie and had started through respect and companionship. Tear everything apart, create chasms between our hearts, but we always had a bond beneath the surface, one that bore no logical explanation. It always thrived on through pain and separation. It was our foundation.

I wanted this new sense of peace to be enough. I knew that we both carried a strange desperation to suck the marrow out of every possible second because of the threat looming on the horizon, and I was just as vehement to hastily build the life we might have had and act it out with seeming conviction…even if something still felt lacking, something imperative, something more than congeniality could ever offer.

But we played on. Erik cooked us supper, and we ate together amidst pleasant conversation. Afterward, he played for me on his brilliant pipe organ, and I sang a bit, thrilling at the occasional grins my impromptu performance inspired on the lips of my once teacher. Perhaps we weren't loving each other full hearts and souls, keeping a structured division between every emotion and grasping it firmly within our control, but this was safe. This was without pressure or definition, and yet to my innermost heart, this was the most painful of any relationship we had ever attempted. I wasn't loving him as he wanted, and he would accept that as enough.

That night brought another nightmare, and when his muffled cries roused my dreamless state, I did not hesitate to scurry out of bed and seek him out. Once again I found him restlessly asleep in his chair before a dwindling fire, and once again I knew without doubt that he had not intended to sleep. Gazing upon that twisted face with a wave of compassion so great that it created tears in my eyes, I wondered what horrors of his past were torturing him tonight, which particular agony among dozens, which trauma to an already damaged soul.

"Erik," I called tenderly as I moved to stand before his chair, and leaning into him, I dared to delicately touch the tear-stained, unmasked side of his face, calling again, "Erik, _ange_, wake up."

"Christine," he gasped, and it took me a moment to realize that he was not yet awake, still in the nightmare's embrace. Dear God, he was dreaming about me; _I_ was the cause of this nightmare….

"_Ange_," I breathed, my voice catching on a sob. It astounded me to realize what I had done to this man, enough to torture his subconscious as cruelly as memories of physical assaults. It made me suddenly hate myself. "_Ange_, please wake up."

All at once before I could have ever even realized his unconscious intentions, his hands darted out from the fists they had been confined to at his sides. Hands, danger, my mind shrieked, but I hadn't the chance to avoid them. They caught and clawed at my forearms, the sleeves of my nightdress wrinkling in the fierce grasp, and without pause, they were jerking me to him until I was viciously crushed against the hard wall of his chest, my attempted rigidity of limbs having to bend and cave into the awkward embrace.

"Erik," I finally managed to say with a voice, but he was still lost to awareness and did not respond save to clutch tighter to my yielding body, his arms weaving about me and holding me in place.

"Don't go," he muttered to the Christine in his dream's eye, the one he was so desperate to cling to. "Christine, don't leave me."

Erik's uncovered cheek was rubbing against my temple, his tears striking my skin to scream blatantly of their presence, and I ceased my feeble struggle and allowed him even though I was afraid to hold him back. I didn't move; I savoured the moment, unknown to him, unshared in reality even. I savoured an embrace with a man who didn't even know he was holding me.

"I won't leave you, Erik," I whispered, and with all of the timidity of a little girl, I slowly encircled his torso with my arms, tentatively returning the unacknowledged affection and relaxing against him.

That was it, dream broken. Perhaps it was my words that were unspoken by my dream self, but I felt the shift in his breath, his lungs so flush to my own. His entire frame went stiff and tense against me, his hands abruptly releasing so that he could cower as far back into the chair's leather cushions as our close proximity would allow.

"Erik." I attempted to sound unafraid, never accusing, gentle even, but I could sense the terror fluctuating from him, terror to have me so near.

"Oh God, Christine…. Did I…?" His wide eyes would not meet mine, glancing frantically about the room to avoid what he likely assumed would be disgust and blame. "I'm so sorry…. I…."

It took that long for me to recall the true impropriety that modesty should have insisted was present in our intimate position, and blushing so fiercely that I felt my skin burn, I awkwardly stumbled off of his lap. My knees shook under my weight in the instant my feet hit the floor, and it was with an added element of necessity that I sat on the couch as I had the previous night, certain I couldn't have run away from the situation even if I had wanted to.

Erik still would not fully regard me beyond a furtive, occasional glance, but those threatening hands were fisted in his lap as if to ensure us both that he would not try to touch me again.

"You…you were having another nightmare," I pointlessly said, searching for any way to break the growing discomfort in the air. "…About me."

"Yes, well, …I do that from time to time," he replied solemnly. "I truly wish you would exercise some form of caution and keep away from me. Surely this incident just now has proven to you how dangerous I can be when I am asleep."

"You didn't hurt me," I offered adamantly.

"Not this time, not beyond violating propriety anyway. But still…. I can be as violent in my sleep as I am when awake, and worse yet because I wouldn't even realize what I was doing. Please just promise to stay away. I couldn't bear it if I hurt you."

At least he wasn't angry; that was my first thought, followed by a desire to disagree and prove his assumptions wrong. "How is it that all of the other times I stayed with you, you didn't suffer from these nightmares? I cannot believe that you did, and I was just unaware."

Finally, he met my eye, and I noted that the trembling he had been suffering upon awakening was quieting to a subtle shiver. Studying me all the while, he admitted, "After that first night, I never slept when you were with me. It wasn't a difficult feat; you were only ever here random nights from time to time. But lately…well, after our current traumas, I've found myself quite exhausted. I don't even recognize it when I fall asleep anymore."

I understood his fatigue all too well: mental, spiritual, emotional, exhaustion of body and soul after months of torture. "But…do you have nightmares every time you sleep?"

"No, they usually appear at times in my life when I feel reality is spinning beyond my control."

I would have argued with his reasoning if I considered he'd take a single word I said to heart; instead I pushed, "You said last night that your nightmares were memories, but…this one…. I didn't leave you, Erik."

"Not yet," he corrected, and I caught the briefest flicker of the true melancholy incited within the fictitious boundaries of a dream and spilling out into our ill-fated reality. "This one may not yet be a memory, but it will be soon enough."

Nodding half to myself, I concluded, "And you will mourn my absence and continue to suffer without happiness as yours."

"I never considered my future to be any different than that. I am doomed to be forever unhappy; I've known that my entire life. Optimism is a waste of hope."

"No," I protested with an adamant shake of my head. "You must have anticipated that you would be happy…with me. That was the future you truly wanted."

"And realistically knew I'd never have," he added sharply. "Don't you see by now that good things do not come easily to me? I've always anticipated failure, and yet I had to try or carry the regret. You were never meant to be mine, Christine, no matter how desperately I've wanted to believe otherwise."

"And yet I am yours," I insisted. It was the nearest to any sort of revelation that I felt I could give.

"At present." His agreement was as pointed and somber as every word had been.

"Exactly," I declared inarguably and encouraged further denials, stating the blasphemous, unwanted lie again. "I am yours for the present, and you have yet to let yourself love me. You said that you wanted to know no regret for the terms we end upon, but you've spent all day keeping me at arm's length from your heart. Tell me, _ange_; when you envisioned a relationship between us, even one that must be doomed, was this what you wanted? This congenial acquaintanceship we've been indulging? This isn't love."

"And it never will be," he decided with a snap of his temper as it was stirred to life by my boldness. "How can I hope for a love with you if you love someone else? Even temporary, it isn't real."

"But why not pretend it is?" I offered. My own internal voice called it absurd to even fathom such a thing; it was only a further means to deny and escape the true feelings blazing unintentionally within my chest. Love him without ever telling him it was real? Absurd…, yes, it was, but to some inkling of yearning in my addled head, it seemed oddly logical.

Erik, however, did not share my sudden enthusiasm over my forming plan. "Pretend that we love each other?" he retorted, his hands suddenly gripping at the armrests of his chair with repressed rage seeking a way to get free. "You want me to love you and pretend that you love me back? Even as my head knows that you are lying? That is the most cruel betrayal I can imagine enduring, Christine."

"But don't you want something happy to remember and cling to as yours? I'm here with you now, Erik, and…and you could love me as you want."

"While you lie in return," he finished with the part I did not want to consider.

"That doesn't matter. You could be happy, Erik; you'd know forever that you loved me, whole heart and soul, and this would be only yours, a happy memory instead."

"But you-"

"I would be giving you something," I interrupted before he could call it a lie once again. "I have done nothing but cause you pain; if I could give you happiness for even a short time, perhaps it could make up for some of the damage I've caused."

"This is ridiculous," he snapped, shaking his head in a fiery refusal. "Preposterous and at its essence, a deception. …It would kill me to do this and then lose you." His admission was little more than a whisper, and even as I glimpsed the depth of pain beneath, I did not falter in my resolve.

"And when the alternative is never loving me at all?" I posed back. "Temporary happiness must be better to a lifetime of only loneliness."

Even as my offer was making an impression and diminishing his preferred rage, he was yet hesitant to accept it. "And what happens when you cower away from me, Christine, as you've always done? What happens when barely a brushing of my hand makes you cringe? It is impossible to pretend love when you only know disgust for me. Your countenance will hold flaws."

"You will never know the difference," I vowed confidently, knowing disgust had not been an issue for me in months. Disgust? I hadn't known a single instant of disgust since my startled and manipulated reaction to the first appearance of his face. No, my cowering solely had to do with fear, and as far as I was concerned, this game would give me the excuse I needed to let fear go. If it was feigned reality, then I did not need to be afraid of it. "Please, Erik," I begged for us both. "Love me as you've always wanted to. Let me be who you've wanted me to be."

Never an answer was given; his solemn stare traveled from my intent expression to the fire, unwilling to share the thoughts in his head, and I wondered if I had only caused more anguish with my attempt at healing. I had this impeccable tendency to break this man over and over again even when that was not my intention at all; it was practically an unwanted talent. How often had the most miniscule gesture on my part, a single unconsidered word even, been enough to insult and hurt him? And this time I thought to be giving him exactly what he longed for, but under the preface of a lie, it was just as harmful.

Minutes ticked by unheeded, and I eventually curled up onto the couch cushions, resting my head silently on the armrest with an inability to find the strength to keep it lifted any longer. He might have occasionally spent full nights awake, but I was accustomed to at least a decent amount of sleep. I could feel myself starting to drift off when he suddenly spoke, never even glancing in my direction.

"If I agreed to your offer," he quietly and hesitantly said, "I want you to understand that I would never force any emotion or desire upon you…. I would be a gentleman with you. I would never hurt you, …and you need but say the word and this game will be over. …Christine?"

He still would not look at me, perhaps unsure how I would accept his vows, perhaps embarrassed that he even had to speak them, but I softly replied, "I understand," and watched his subtle nod, studying his mask and its unnatural glow in the lingering firelight. Without his regard, I was able to continue on, gazing at that face, scrutinizing the unconcealed features and imagining the flawed ones beyond my sight. And as my eyelids grew heavy with a need for sleep and my view of him began to become hazy at its edges, I felt fantasy and reality combine until my mind saw his bare face before me, unmasked and unhidden. And it wasn't odd or disconcerting; it was just his face. As sleep took over, I could still see its nuances and shadows as if I was awake and regarding him yet by the firelight, and it was so vivid that I could not call it sleep with any certainty. No, not until a little later when I reluctantly stirred out of its calm peace.

I was being carried; that was my first coherent thought, but I continued to feign unconsciousness, careful to keep unmoving and yielding, absolutely pliant in the strong arms holding me. Erik was carrying me to bed; I knew it without ever opening my eyes to confirm it, and I concentrated my analyzing senses on him and only him, his nearness, his chest against my cheek, his heartbeat drumming steadily in my ear, his soothing scent intoxicating my every breath. It was only too delightful, and I knew disappointment as he lowered me onto my bed and released me from his firm grasp. Everything felt immediately chilled without him, even as he lifted the blankets over me and their thickness incited warmth; I still felt cold, inside and out.

I anticipated that he would leave now that his task was complete, but I could feel his presence remaining, stoic and frozen at my bedside, occasionally catching a barely audible sigh that escaped his lips. And though it should have disturbed me to know he was there, I was oddly comforted by his presence instead, lulled back toward my dreams with a serene sense of completion radiating from his silhouette to my body. This was the way things were meant to be; that was my chanted thought that nearly made me smile to myself.

I was on the verge of finding sleep's arms again when my guardian angel shifted in his vigil. I assumed he was leaving. I never expected the feather-light touch I received, cold, a grazing of fingertips to my cheekbone so delicate that it was almost impossible to believe that it was from the same hand that I perceived to be a dangerous weapon. How could something so gentle cause any sort of pain? It seemed an exaggerated lie in that moment. These hands could only be tender; they couldn't ever take a life, no, not _these_ hands.

Those caressing fingers followed the curved contours of my face, and I desperately fought a shiver that seemed so natural at the welling deliciousness tingling my skin. Along my jaw, outlining my lips, and they lingered at the bridge of my nose, learning the construction of something he himself did not possess upon his corpse's face. Tears threatened to escape my closed eyes, and I hoped he would not notice. But there was such adoration in every single cherishing touch, such controlled reverence, and all I could think was that I had rarely let him touch me before. My God, this man had never touched anyone unless violence was attached, and to worship my features with such timid delicacy, to know I was the only one, …it made my heart ache desperately within my body and instinct beg me to touch him in return.

But I continued with my fake state of sleep, accepting every silent tribute he had to give me, and though I was disappointed when those fingers were pulled away, in my next breath, I felt him leaning over me. His mask was a barrier and made every gesture awkward, but as he loomed above me, he brushed as much of a kiss as he could manage to my brow, truly only a touch of his lower lip to my skin. In the merest gap between our faces, he breathed without voice, "I love you, Christine."

I nearly sobbed aloud and gave my awareness away; it was a result of endless determination that I kept silent until I heard him go and caught the sound of my door closing into place behind him. Only then did my eyes dart open and glance to where I knew he had been, praying for a lingering outline of his silhouette to assure me that I had not dreamed the entire scene. But nothing but darkness met me, and only darkness saw my tears.


	2. Chapter 2

I didn't know what I'd find when I sought out Erik the next morning. Would he be the short-tempered man who snapped at my every unconsidered word, the amiable friend from the day before, or would he be the lover who had stood at my bedside and had touched me so tenderly? He had given no definitive answer to my unorthodox proposition, and even though I tried to tell myself that it didn't matter, that it had truly been a ridiculous idea all along, I could not squash the inkling of hope thriving within that I would have the valid excuse I wanted to portray a love story with a murderer.

As my footsteps carried me into the living room, I received my answer. There he was, my Erik, my angel, …my love, it seemed as he approached me, eyes always tentative and unsure, offering to my regard a solitary red rose. In this storyline with these roles, I was equally as hesitant; we had never before learned their facets, and I knew a brief sense of trepidation. And yet wasn't it assuaged to nothing as his expression transformed through uncertainty to a smile?

"Good morning," he said, extending the flower in a hand that trembled despite his countenance.

My own returned smile was shy in its curves as I accepted his sweet token and clasped it between my quivering fingers. It almost seemed silly to me. This was what we had both wanted, and yet we were afraid to simply take it. Awkward in every breath, I guided the rose to my cheek, setting its velvet petals against my skin and inhaling its perfume, and all the while, I watched him as steadily as he watched me and glimpsed him shift idly on his feet and clench now-empty hands to pretend they weren't shaking.

"Thank you," I softly replied, keeping the flower against my chest, and my grin grew strong and bright as I asked, "And what shall we do today, _ange_? Have you considered? There must be something you'd want us to do together."

I could see that he already had an idea in mind, but he paused a moment more before sharing. "I want to walk in the sunlight, Christine. I have not ventured out to see its rays in more years than I can recall. If you will be there beside me…. I abhor the manmade world; you know that well enough. When it has always only been a foreign place to me, it is no wonder, but perhaps if we were within its boundaries together, …maybe it would be almost ordinary."

I nodded my consent, my smile ever intact, and I noted the growing excitement in those mismatched eyes simply because I had never seen such emotions within him before. I wondered if they were due to our outing or if their roots ran deeper to the underlying fact that pretend all we liked, this was the very future he had always longed for, one with me at his side to conquer every dark place in his world and bring back the light.

On the wings of such a new thrill, I saw his hand unclench at his side and lift ever so slightly before he seemed to reign its impulsiveness back within his control, keeping it fixed in its place. With the ever-present timidity that could never be forgotten, he dared to ask in a wavering voice, "May I…may I touch you, Christine?"

The night before and an unconscious state had not required permission for the very same act, but now face to face with awareness in between, he was terrified that I would refuse. Refuse? As if I could! I found my eyes locking on that hand and yearning with a sudden necessity to feel its texture and coldness, its soft caress to confirm the idle fantasies in my head that were reliving his last attempt.

"Yes, …of course, Erik," I stammered after a moment, realizing that lost in my fixation of thought, I had yet to reply. As a quick consideration, I hastily added, "You need not ask me again; I won't refuse."

Everything was meant to be innocent, but both of us were continuously acknowledging the deeper implications that were always present just beneath the surface, wanting only to shine through. It was through their urging that Erik finally raised that hesitant, trembling hand, and under my attentive stare, he brought his fingers to my upturned face and made a similar path as he had upon unconscious features, tracing jaw and lips and nose, holding my eye all the while as if seeking the disgust he had presumed my waking self would show and yet never finding it.

Perhaps he spoke thoughts that had been playing in his head when he had been the shadow at my bedside, but in a hushed breath, he whispered, "You are so beautiful, Christine, so much so that I am humbled and unworthy to share any part of your existence even if that is all I yearn for. I adore you."

I knew what my heart wanted me to do as it made my own fingers tingle and itch to touch him in the same unthreatening manner that he was touching me, but courage still wasn't mine, game or not, and I did not obey what felt like a natural necessity. I only smiled, shy yet, and slightly tilted my face into his touch, shivering down my spine with its longed-for familiarity. And it was so much more fulfilling than the night before because I could gaze into those eyes and watch him feel as he acted, watch gentle, protective emotions and know wonder at their inseverable roots.

When he drew back again, it was to my avid disappointment, and I knew that even if it were clear and vivid across my face, he would question its reality. But wasn't that the bitterness of this game? Every act, every word, every breath would bear its own suspicion; he would never believe it was real, and even as my heart scolded me, I knew I would not assure him, …not yet.

A little later, we found ourselves as ordinary as a disfigured sometimes murderer and a child a step away from fading to denial could be. We were strolling the city street markets with other, seemingly ordinary people, pretending to be a viable part of their ordinary world. And we did a decent job of it. Of course there were stares and whispers, all just beyond our stepping path, but this class of working people did not know the legend of the Opera Ghost, leaving their only point worthy of gossip to be the undeniable presence of the mask. I tried to put myself in their place and consider how I would have reacted a couple of years back before I knew of masks and deceiving angels. What would I have done if I had seen a masked man wandering the city market between rows of fresh carrots and cauliflower? I would be a hypocrite to condemn their natural skepticism and strange intrigue, so instead I chose to ignore them altogether and focus every kind smile I could muster on Erik and his attempts to seem unaffected. And when he caught my hand in his and weaved our fingers together without the inclination to ask, I purposely leaned closer to him and even dared to lay my head upon his shoulder for an instant, long enough to feel him shift his attention solely to me and my unhesitant actions. He was grateful; I had no doubt of that, and I decided at that moment that that would be all that mattered.

So I smiled, and I laughed; and I ignored every other person on the streets and every stare that followed us. Erik's reasoning suddenly made sense to me. We were together; let them say what they wanted. If we had each other, not a word of it could touch us.

We ended up in a small café, and when he had proposed the idea, I had wholeheartedly agreed, our fellow café patrons barely a consideration. However, eating in a public setting proved a separate set of problems; it was awkward for Erik to eat when wearing his mask, and where as I typically did not give it a second look by now, others in our company were not as tolerable. They stared and gaped, and I bore the quick thought that their reaction was with the mask in place; Lord help them if they ever saw him eat without its protective presence! He would not even subject me to that, and I was no longer shocked by his deformity. In a desperate effort to keep him unaware or at least uncaring, I carried on with a bit of an exaggeration to my dramatics, telling stories of my youth, ridiculous and overdone but enough to retain his delighted interest in every excited word. Only twice did I catch him casually glance to our continued audience, and the instant he did, I grabbed onto his hand laying so innocently upon the tablecloth and recaptured his focus and returned smile. A touch, another touch, always unreserved and starting to lack any lingering trepidation on the fringes. These were the unhindered intimacies of lovers, ones that would have otherwise been inappropriate, and I found myself equally a victim to their thrill. I concentrated on the smooth coolness of his hand against mine, pressing palm to palm, fingers woven between, and my eyes lingered on the image of joined hands, a shield in their implied strength against the bite of the world's intrusion. The hand of a killer, and yet it suddenly seemed weak on its own; only with mine was it strong.

Our outing included one last impromptu venture as Erik suggested a stroll along the river walkway. I took it as a positive point of encouragement that we were not racing back to hibernate in shadows, shunning daylight as a whole and never to emerge again. It meant that I had fulfilled my informally accepted purpose.

The air held a chill on the edge of every gusty breeze, and without the timidity I should have known, I cuddled near to Erik, leaning over our entwined arms to set my temple to his shoulder against the repelling force of the wind. It dragged any loosened and falling locks across my line of vision even as my free hand incessantly shoved them back again.

Another huddling couple wandered past on their way in the opposite direction, and though they gave a solitary suspicious glance as they crossed our path, I had the thought that aside from Erik's mask, we weren't any different than they were, the very same image of a couple in love. …Our only failing point was the technicality of a half-hearted lie at its base; …a game of pretend, and I kept asking myself where the actual pretending was. It seemed impossible to tell where its limits stopped and real emotion began….

The river was choppy beneath an overcast sky, and glancing at the grey cover, I watched the quick passage of wispy clouds atop what had been a blue sky when our outing had begun. Rolling in with the wind, they blocked sunlight's reach and hinted at rain; oddly enough, they would be the ones to drive us back indoors.

Using the wind yet as my excuse, I burrowed my face against his shoulder sleeve and contented myself on his delicious scent as I breathed him in, and when his free hand came up to smooth back my dancing curls, I nearly sighed aloud with such overwhelming peace.

"Christine," Erik gently called, leaning near, "I must thank you for every moment of this day; it has been the most wonderful of my life. …It leaves me loath to lose you…."

"Why are you so certain that the Vicomte is going to come after me?" I demanded instead, meeting his eye with a strange rush of guilt simply to mention Raoul in this current, intimate setting with Erik. But was he not equal to another cloud hanging over our heads ready to steal our bliss with one sudden rainfall?

"If he loves you, he will come after you," Erik reluctantly replied with a hint of sadness he could not fully conceal from my intent scrutiny.

"But why are you so sure?"

He was quiet a breath, stroking my hair one last time rather possessively before he straightened his posture. "Because…if things were reversed and I was in his place, I would never just let you go, especially to the care of a murdering freak such as myself. He won't want to miss the chance to play the hero and save the fair damsel from harm."

"Harm?" I inquired skeptically. "You mean you, and I see no harm worthy of rescue."

"Then you are naïve," he argued back, shaking his head. "I am the greatest danger you can imagine; I may be playing the man and tender lover for your sake, but it is as much of a lie as your own current role."

"I don't believe you," I insisted adamantly, and I truly didn't, most especially if my own role held no lie. I was as near to my true self and true feelings as ever, and I had no doubt that Erik was as well. As usual, he was using his supposed persona to try and push me away; he did that nearly as much as I lied about my heart.

I never got to press the issue as random spurted raindrops began to strike skin on their predetermined descent. Without explanation, Erik shifted our path and led us back toward home, and that was it. Our venture at normalcy had ended.

Ended, stomped upon, dead; even the lie was suddenly in jeopardy in the instant we entered the catacombs.

Erik halted our pace mid-step, clutching me back, and I softly demanded, "What's wrong?"

"Someone has been here," he declared without doubt or question. And even as I had no fathomable idea how he could tell such a thing when there was no visible evidence as confirmation, I trusted his instincts and simply curled closer to him. Remaining silent, I put all of my faith in Erik, knowing he'd do whatever he must to keep me safe. No, I wasn't afraid for my life so much as the queer streak of nobility he was lately indulging and a promise he had made to return me to Raoul when he came. I didn't want to leave; I knew that with conviction, but if we did come upon Raoul at this moment, would I have the bravery I needed to argue it?

After an instant of intent study, Erik declared, "He isn't here any longer." And before I could ask how he knew, he was pulling me onward and back down to his home. Not here any longer, but Erik seemed convinced without saying so that Raoul would return.

The rest of our day was spent with an undercurrent of paranoia, at least on my part; if Erik was worried, he never showed me. But a solemnity had crept into his demeanor and a sadness in his eyes whenever I met their stare as he often seemed to be watching me and my every movement, perhaps half-convinced I would simply disappear from his sight.

That was exactly why later when I emerged from a bath clothed in my nightgown, I did not hesitate or let myself cower when he beckoned me to him. He was seated in his chair before the blazing hearth, but his eyes were only on me, marveling over me in a way that stole my very ability to breathe. Between us, he was the uncertain one, shaking down his limbs as he dared to open his arms to me, and I was the undoubting one, knowing what I was doing must be unacceptable but not caring. Last night this same embrace had been manipulated and forced by a nightmare; tonight it was freely chosen. I slid onto his lap and into his trembling arms, shivering a bit myself as they came around me and clasped me carefully to him. And it felt so incredibly delightful, so warm and safe in an embrace I had previously believed would be as chilled as the catacombs, caught by the subtle pressure of hands that I couldn't consider dangerous in this pose. How my entire perception had been altered in one day and one game of pretend, one willingness to listen to what my heart had been chanting all along!

It took a great effort to lift my shy eyes to his masked face so near to my own, and I quivered as a victim to the sheer power in that constant stare, so overwrought with that sadness I had only had glimpses of earlier. Now it was a pool that I was drowning in with every second that I was lost to its depths.

"I have been thinking," he softly spoke, "and I have come to realize something that puts me on the edge of hope's precipice, something that could change everything; it's but one answer away. And so here is the unasked question I put before you, Christine, one that no one has ever truly posed or received an honest reply to: what is it that _you_ want, _ange_?"

I must have been gaping at him at that moment; exceeding shock and surprise, I was thrown off of my stability as a whole. What I wanted…. It was suddenly blatantly clear to me that he was right. _No one_, not him or Raoul or a single person ever in my life even, had asked me what I wanted my future to be. Of course I had had the choice to pick Erik, but any answer to that proposition with its catastrophic and immoral circumstances had to be half-coerced, no matter the foundation of feelings beneath. Raoul had been little better. As I had foolishly told him who Erik was, the eager Vicomte had painted a villain for me to fear and loath and had proclaimed himself as my hero sent to rescue me from the devil and grant me salvation. And even if I had never fully believed him, I hadn't been brave enough to argue and create my own storyline for myself. Weak, always weak, and in letting everyone else decide my life for me, I was now terrified by any genuine emotion I bore, terrified that it was the _wrong_ one to feel. How could any feeling _be_ wrong? There were good and bad feelings, but to feel something and call it _wrong_; that was lying to oneself. And hadn't I been doing that all along?

"Christine," Erik gently called as I meditated, "I know that you're afraid. I am no fool; I've watched you run from your own heart all this time as if it would prove to be the death of you to believe what it has always told you." He huffed a deep breath that practically brimmed over with a guilt I could not understand until he added, "And I am equally to blame; I used your fears to my advantage, to try and have you without ever giving you the chance to refuse me. Well, now I put the decision before you, without manipulation, with only one request: that you listen to what your heart is telling you instead of denying it. What you feel is not some sort of condemning sin, Christine; it's a blessing. Please just tell me what you want."

"I…." I was shaking my head, suddenly desperate not to have to form an answer. What I wanted…. What I wanted was almost too terrifying to conceive. So instead, against the better judgment of my screaming heart, I insisted, "You said you'd let me leave when Raoul came without argument or violence."

"How can you truly keep pretending that that is your answer after today?" he demanded back on the verge of snapping with his temper.

"Today was a game of pretend."

"And what will you call this then?" he pushed, gesturing to my self-chosen place upon his lap. "Further pretending? Will you not even acknowledge how this feels? Or will you only call it another act of a lie?"

He was determined to sway me, and as one of those deadly hands kept clenching in the sleeve of my nightdress to keep me from running, the other raised to my face. As he had done earlier, he trailed his fingertips along my features, and I knew I was giving him the answer he wanted in my expression, unconsciously and unheeded. It was just a natural reaction to ache when he touched me and to show it to his desperately eager stare.

"Are you pretending with me now, Christine?" he demanded, a telltale hoarseness creeping on the edge of his golden cords. "I watch you when I touch you; I've been doing it all day, seeking disgust yet never finding any. No, all I find is longing. It's so evident in your eyes. Will you now lie to me and your own heart and insist that the Vicomte makes you feel this way as well?"

I wanted to cry; I had the urge to sob because I wanted to refuse every word he was saying, and I couldn't. So instead, in terror of every feeling suffocating me, I used my excuse and bid again against heart, "You said you'd let me leave with Raoul."

"And now I won't," he suddenly stated, flat and inarguable, and the sob passed my lips then in a cry from my very spirit that I refused to acknowledge was not out of despair.

"No," was the only word I could manage as the tears spilled down my cheeks.

"Why not? You don't want the Vicomte."

"It was a game of pretend," I insisted again. "You said you'd let me go."

"You _don't want_ to go," he snapped back at me, forcing me to stay lost in the aggression within those mismatched depths. "This game you posed was never for me and what my heart wants; it was for you. Love each other while we can; that was your compensation to your heart for wanting the unacceptable, wasn't it, Christine? But all you've done today is prove what I've known all along; that you can and do love me. You would have never walked on the streets of Paris with me, at my side, enduring stares and comments, ignoring what every single other person said and thought, if you didn't love me. You would have never been strong enough to face that otherwise."

"Erik, stop please," I begged, unable to quell my tears. He was too close to the truth, too near to realizing without lingering doubts that he was right.

"You love me," he vehemently accused as if it was as much an insult as an endearment. "Just say it, Christine. Without games of pretend or lies in between. _You love me_." His hand released my sleeve so that both could cup my face between them, his palms curving along my cheeks and keeping me in an unblinking stare with those eyes.

The words were so close, the admission he wanted. It stunned me that letters and syllables could make such impressions, simple words, simple phrases, and yet one utterance of them could change the world. And I wanted to change his world, to make it better and less dark, to make it happy. But my attention was caught on his touch, the smoothness of his skin against mine, his fingers reaching upward so that the tips grazed my hairline, and I remembered to be afraid. It wasn't a logical choice, and ironically, it wasn't even a fear of him and his murderous hands. It was a fear of my own world changing and with it, every detail and belief I'd ever had about myself. Running from Erik had always been the morally correct thing to do; intelligent girls with even a fiber of conscience did not love murderers. But beneath better judgment, I had loved him all along and had surrendered everything I had been taught by my father, by my religion, by my own rationale to do so. And dear God, was that terrifying!

Without much consideration, I suddenly leapt back off of his lap, shaking in my posture once distance was created, and I stared at him with wide, fear-fringed eyes, half-convinced that if he made a move and came after me, I would succumb this time instead.

"Christine," he breathed sadly yet thankfully remained in his place, watching me, _always_ watching me with those eyes. It would have been so much easier if he had looked away, if I didn't have to see the true damage I was causing. It made me hate myself all the more intently.

"I'm sorry," I gasped out, shaking from head to toe with the truth I was avoiding as it coiled within my body and sought to break free of my constricted hold. "I'm sorry…." On wobbling legs, I ran away from that room, away from those vivid eyes, away from tender hands that my skin already missed upon it. Once again I ran from my heart and the insistent voice in my soul, and I felt sure that one of these times, I was finally going to kill them for good.


	3. Chapter 3

I dreamt of Raoul. It wasn't some sort of horrible nightmare, but it might as well have been. It was a fantasy of the life I should have wanted, easy and free, lacking the powerful emotions that so violently scared me. I was a Vicomtesse in my dream, beautiful and loved even if I wasn't loving in return, and Raoul was at my side, doting upon me, lavishing me with gifts and every luxury money could buy. I seemed happy; I would have almost believed it and likely was smiling in my sleep. But then I looked closer at my dream self, and smiles became frowns. I was a shell, empty and hollowed out. If one looked into my eyes, one saw _nothing_ looking back, no spark, no soul, only a gaping black void. And I suddenly considered that it was no different than if I was dead. On the outside, a blissful dream and fantasy, but beneath the exterior, it _was_ a nightmare. I had finally killed my own heart….

In the rush of a throbbing heart that seemed to scream of its unchanged existence, I was abruptly returned to awareness and nearly cried to find myself in my canopy bed in Erik's home. Erik! I was out of the covers and rushing to my door before my mind had the chance to realize my heart's intentions.

Without a betraying sound, I arrived in the living room's doorway, and yet he sensed my nearness anyway, raising his gaze from the hearth where he stood and focusing on me as I leaned idly against the wooden doorframe in hopes that he would not read how intently I was actually shaking.

"You…you're not asleep," I stammered, clutching with my fingers at the wood's stability as if it was a necessity to keep upright.

"No," he answered with a fraction of coldness. "I could not take the chance of waking up with your throat in my hands."

Even as I nodded, I confirmed for him, "You're sure you would have had a nightmare tonight."

"Undoubtedly, and it would certainly involve you. And I cannot say that my subconscious wouldn't be content to hurt you back. …Why are you awake, Christine? As you can see, I won't be suffering from any nightmares that will require your assistance tonight. In fact, I would greatly prefer it if you went back to bed and locked your door."

"I'm not afraid of you," I declared with the most resolve that I could muster.

"No, you're afraid of your own heart; we've already established that. And in denying it, you may create a sleepwalking monster that attacks you. Do you at least have enough sense to be afraid of that?" When I made no move to leave or gave any reaction to a pretense I considered ridiculous in its essence, he huffed in perturbation and stated decisively, "Go back to bed, Christine."

The easy route for a scared child would have been to obey him, and though instinct tried to encourage that path, I made my acquiescent limbs listen and remain in their spot, clutching tighter at the doorframe in an imposed battle between sense and heart. No, no, heart had to win this time; I could accept nothing less!

"Christine!" he snapped under his flickering temper. "I don't have the patience left to continue with your games. Go to bed _now_, or I will put you there myself!"

I didn't believe that he was making such a threat with any intent to carry it through; he truly was convinced that I would concede and follow his command without valid protest. That was why I almost expected the shock I got when I replied as steadily as I could, "No."

"What?" he stammered with a bewilderment that surpassed anger.

"I won't be sent to bed like a disobedient child." My stern voice made me seem more resolute than I actually felt, but whenever I threatened to falter and back down, I recalled my dream and the hollow version of myself that I could potentially become, no feelings, no heart, no soul. It made me stronger than I'd ever been.

"Won't you?" Erik coldly snapped. "Well, then since you are so accomplished at games of pretend, especially when they involve appeasing me and my wrath, _pretend_ to be the weak child you actually are and go to bed. I am in no mood to continue being toyed with tonight."

My eyes narrowed with his insult as it struck me more harshly than I wanted him to realize, and it convinced me to refuse to quiet the twisting annoyance in my gut. "If we are done with games of make believe love, then it will be easy for you to choose anger, won't it?"

"Why are you taunting me this way? Do you think I won't give in?" His jaw was clenched tight, hands fisted, and even with the fire of his stare to speak for him, I stayed firm.

"I'm proving that you won't hurt me," I stated back. Maybe I was being foolish to tempt his aggressive side, but I felt so entirely confident that I would be right. And I was proving it to us both, that there was nothing to fear in this room, nothing to continue hesitating over, nothing to keep running from. Gathering my mediocre bravery, I forced my hands to unflex and release the doorframe, determined that they would not shake and give me away as I slowly approached him where he stood, wary but undeterred. "You want me to love you," I said with only the slightest waver. "Then you can't hurt me."

This was like teasing a wild animal; I could see the inferno in those eyes, and yet I stepped closer and refused to consider myself ignorant. And for one instant, I thought he was calming or at least less apt to break. One instant, because in the next, he was lunging toward me before I even realized he intended to move. My only consideration in that space of slow motion attack was that I had brought this upon myself. He had told me not to push his temper, and I hadn't listened; and now….

Erik's hands, those dangerous hands, caught my shoulders, and before I could even cry out a protest, he threw me back onto the couch and practically pounced atop me, crushing me into the soft cushions with his weight. I squeezed my lips shut and did not make a sound, focusing intently on his harsh, gasping breaths, on the hard planes of his body against mine, on his masked face hovering a breath above mine.

"Damn you, Christine!" he hissed, eyes locked fixed and fiery on mine. "What are you tempting me to do to you? I vowed to you last night that I would never force my desires upon you; but do you not realize that this could have been the outcome tonight had I suffered a nightmare? You were so adamant that I wouldn't hurt you, that I hold no danger to you, but now do you see a monster? This could have happened, and I would have been unaware, _asleep_. I wouldn't have been able to remember to stop myself."

I should have been terrified; he expected as much. But as he purposely ground his hips into mine, purposely made a desire I had avoided and ignored for far too long prominent in its evidence as an unyielding threat driven into the soft curves of my body, I could only shudder with the violent trembling that overtook my entire frame.

"You wanted a game of pretend," he went on in a growl. "And I was allowed to love you, but it wasn't enough. How could it be enough? I knew the whole time that I was going to lose you, that even if I reigned in this damning desire and played the gentleman for you, I wouldn't be able to keep you in the end. So I've burned alone and been respectful and begged you to love me back. And still you cower even when I gave you nothing to fear; well, now here's something worth fearing, and will you cower again, Christine? If I did not have you pinned to a couch right now, would you be running from me in terror? At least this time you'd have a genuine reason."

I couldn't move, and yet I never struggled. Once again I was permitting without ever actually being an active participant worthy of blame, and I scolded myself for that and for a weakness that seemed inherent in my very makeup. Was that all I'd ever be? But no, that was unacceptable!

Forcing myself to speak meant releasing my lip from where I clenched it between teeth, and as I did, a soft sigh escaped as a natural response that I had been stifling before words could even be considered. Barely breathing and convicted through our shared gaze, I repeated my earlier attestation, "I'm not afraid of you, Erik."

His expression never altered even a bit, and since his weight and size kept me unable to flee from him, he suddenly lifted one hand to his mask. With his face so close to mine that we were sharing the same breath, he lifted that barrier free and tossed it away, putting those features on display almost cruelly.

"Still not afraid of the monster, Christine?" he taunted, and I wasn't sure if he was hoping that I would cringe with my assumed revulsion or if I would be unaffected. Was he looking for a reason to hate me, or was he searching for hope? And was it cruel on my part to take the path that sowed that hope in every single tentative step?

I wasn't shocked or disgusted by that face; I hadn't been in a long time, probably since my first glimpse of it. Since then I had seen it enough times in my mind's eye to dull any lingering astonishment. I had even considered that it was utterly ridiculous that he still wore the mask in my presence, but deemed it was for his own sake, not mine. He thought I'd stare; I knew I wouldn't, but I never corrected him and altered his thinking. I let him believe that disgust had always thrived, and I had done so rather convincingly or so the surprise overcoming those mangled features told me. …And yet he couldn't seem to accept it as real.

Forgetting his previous wish to win this unnamed quarrel, he suddenly pleaded with me, letting go of every inkling of bravado that he had. "Pretend a love story with me, Christine; play your game, and pretend that you love me and this horrible face."

Erik was giving me my excuse if only to have the smallest piece of what he truly wanted, but this time I refused to take it. In a soft whisper, I insisted, "But pretending isn't real, …and this, here and now with you, is."

Hesitant to put any credence to my words, he pushed, "Then tell me, Christine: what do you want? …Is it this? …Is it me?"

"And if I say yes, what then?" I suddenly blurted out, my eyes filling with unwanted tears of desperation. "I don't know how to love you as you want me to. And what if I can't do it, Erik? …What if I can't be that brave?" I shook my head against the cushion, and a few stray tears broke free from the corners of my eyes to slide down and invade my tangled curls; they were my inarguable proof that real emotion existed no matter how often I had tried to deny it. "You were right. Loving Raoul was easy because it wasn't love at all. My heart was always my own, and all I had to do was tell myself that I wanted to be with him and that was enough. But you…you want _everything_."

Erik did not correct me. No, he suddenly sought one of my pinned hands between our bodies and carefully pried it free, cupping the back of it in his palm. He was shaking with a timidity I could not understand; had he not just buried me beneath him on the couch without a single second of hesitation? But this simplicity that lacked a valid threat in its gentle overtones seemed to terrify him as he guided my willing hand to his face and carefully set my palm against his deformed features, shuddering almost violently with that first contact. It was intimate; yes, to him, it had to be intimate.

"I may want everything," he was saying softly in a tone that was saturated in emotion, "but I know you can give me everything. You love me," he stated as he had earlier, utterly and completely certain. "If you didn't love me, you wouldn't be permitting these violent indiscretions that I am committing with you right now and giving no fear or disgust as your reaction. You would be fighting for your innocence, for your very life. …But you have yet to voice a single protest."

Protest? I was far too intrigued with the oddities that constituted his face, welcoming their every brushing against my skin and even curving my palm closer to feel more. I was fascinated by the strange texture of the tautly pulled flesh, letting one of my fingers bend and trail the pronounced bone surrounding an eye sunk so deeply into its cavity. Onward in such a similar way to how he had learned the shapes and nuances of my features, I broke my hand free of his grip so that I could explore, always under a certain aspect of uncertainty from him. He had started this new game in hopes of steering us closer to reality, and yet even as he permitted me, he was shaking, every inch of untouched flesh beneath my fingers quivering.

As my fingers traced the flat expanse where the cartilage of a nose should have existed, he gave the smallest whimper, repeated when I grazed the two gaping holes where shallow, trembling breaths puffed out. And I realized that maybe if I didn't love him, these things _would_ hold their own sort of disgust. Aesthetically, they were unappealing; he was nothing like the fairytale princes whose stories I had had my head filled with as a child. And yet just because a prince was handsome did not mean that he could love with even an inkling of the fire and devotion in Erik's heart. It was shining through his mismatched eyes even now, an adoration that surpassed his own lingering fears, made all the more bright by my resolved actions. And as my fingers outlined his misshapen mouth and crossed the seam between his lips, he dared to press a hesitant kiss to their tips.

"What do _you_ want, Christine?" he repeated in a whisper, and his breath tickled my fingers with every letter that passed his lips.

"You." The word escaped me before I had time to even consider that it would become more than a thought on its own; it was almost a betrayal of my own mind.

A sudden burst of relief overcame those twisted features as if he had been fighting some hopeless battle and finally, _finally_, could know rest; I even felt his weight sag against me with a barely audible sigh, and his arms suddenly wrapped about my small body and clutched me tightly to him as if he would never have the strength to let me go again.

He didn't ask for flowery promises or undying vows at that moment; he seemed content just to hold me as I held him back with willowy arms that trembled awkwardly down their lengths with my every nervous breath. This was a new role for me, one I had always seemed to want to be cast in yet never thought I had the potential to be; and yet didn't it seem to be written and composed just for me? A role…, a game…, but no, this wasn't pretend anymore. This was me, and this was _my_ life. I had chosen its course, and I was determined suddenly to embrace it wholeheartedly.

As Erik lowered his head to my cloud of curls strewn along the cushion, I did not let myself ponder my actions; I followed emotion's guide, and I gently set my cheek to his deformed one, resting it without pressure, light as a feather but skin to skin, my unmarred features filling in the gaps of his and making them perfect and beautiful. And it was that simple action that made him cry. Cheek to cheek, tears were equally mine, and they were a revelation because they mattered so much to me; because when sense tried to argue that I was being held down upon a couch by a murderer whose bloodstained hands were clutching fitfully at the material of my nightgown in every effort to hold me tighter, those tears made my heart pose instead that he was just a man, and he was learning to love and what love was in the same way that I was. And everything else faded away: the roles, the games, the pain we had continuously seemed to cause one another. None of it mattered; none of it could touch us.

For a long while, we stayed that way, as tears ran out and breaths synced themselves as one, not thinking too much, not pushing too hard. In that one silent embrace, we seemed to heal months of pain.

Finally, as the fire in the hearth was becoming only flickering embers that cast shadows about the room, I softly bid, "Promise me that we're going to leave this place before the Vicomte returns to try to take me away from you."

"If you love me, he will never part us," he vowed back equally as quiet, soft whispers in the dimness.

"I know, and I won't have the two of you fighting to the death for me when I myself have made my choice." I had drawn back enough to meet his adamant stare, and the adoration beaming there took my breath away as always. It seemed that when I wasn't holding his eye, I forgot how overwhelming and intense his stare could be only to be shaken every time I met his gaze again. To know someone loved me so much and to see it vividly displayed without walls or resentment in between…. It was an amazement to me.

"And your choice is me," he repeated as if he needed to hear it plainly put to believe it.

And I gave him what he needed. "My choice is you." I did not quell the impulse as it bid me to touch him, but I still trembled a bit as I caressed his scars as if they were unmarked perfection instead. "Without doubt or reservation, I choose you, Erik."

"Heart and soul, Christine?" he pushed urgently. "Despite who I am and what I've done?"

Yes, he was a murderer; my head took the opportunity to scream it in my mind, but even that confirmed appellation did not sway the emotions swelling within me. No, because this was not a black and white situation where only good and evil existed; there were too many layers in between for that to be true. I could not give him excuses for his tainted past, but I could try to understand it and carry the utter certainty that no matter what he'd done, he'd _never_ hurt me.

As my answer, I leaned closer and pressed a gentle kiss to his mangled cheek, sure he'd never known such an intimacy. As he gasped his surprise and arched nearer to my tender touch, I made one kiss into a dozen and cherished each neglected feature. It was suddenly my right and privilege. He had said his only happiness had come from being an intangible angel; I was determined to far exceed that and show him how imperative touch was to existing.

"Christine," he breathed as my kiss grazed along the swollen expanse of his upper lip, and I shivered myself to take his very breath into my lungs with his exhalation, edging closer and closer to him as if I could disappear within his molecules. Our lips were but inches from each other, yet still he said, "Earlier I asked permission to dare touch you. Must I now ask if I may kiss you as well, or will you simply allow me? At least assure me that you feel this desire as I do. …Let it be your choice, Christine. You kissed me once as a sacrifice; if you kiss me now, it will only be because you want me."

I couldn't have denied it, not while existing that close to that malformed face, and I didn't want to. My fingers trailed up his cheek, over scars until they were barely grazing the fine hair at his temple, and knowing that this was about to change my entire life and for the first time unafraid of that very thing, I kissed him. This kiss was so very different from the only other one we'd shared; this one held about a million more strings that attached through joined lips and formed unbreakable knots from his heart to mine and back again. It was pure and untainted; it was freely given and accepted. As I moved my mouth against his so very gently, I could feel his hands fisting and unfisting restlessly in my nightdress at my hips, wanting more yet never taking it. No, he was careful to follow my lead, reigning in the full extent of that desire that had never for an instant dimmed, and I was the one to coax the passion onward, daring to let my tongue just barely enter the parting seam of his lips to capture a hint of his taste. It was just so blissfully innocent and yet still hinting at something more, something I had to deny my instinctual urge to fight against. I had run from this once; I wouldn't do it again.

When I reluctantly drew back again, he breathed desperately in the air between our lips, "I love you, Christine; I love you; I love you."

Before I could return his beautiful sentiment, he stole my chance, capturing my lips this time, and in my one and only coherent thought before passion clouded over my mind, I wondered if he was perhaps still afraid that I would have avoided the words. Even if he doubted the extent of my bravery, he couldn't doubt my passion as I met his kiss and stifled timidity. His tongue was seeking its rightful mate, trailing mine so teasingly and bidding it to surrender in some intimate form of dance, and I shuddered from head to toe and squirmed against his hardness with my undeniable consumption. I was being swallowed, and even as my lingering trepidation broke the surface of desire's waves, it was so much easier and preferred to let myself fall back under, to drown and be suffocated in the intensity as it tingled across every inch of my skin and left goosebumps in its wake.

Ripping his lips away with an abruptness that left me dizzy, Erik insisted in a hoarse echo of his usually golden and clear timbre, "You can't imagine how I ache for you, Christine. But you need not permit me. When we began this game, I never intended such things."

"Game…?" The shock hit me so brutally that I flinched and jerked in his hold, suddenly desperate to be free of his hold. "Game, Erik? …You truly believe that we are still playing a game? …That I am only pretending to love you? That all of this has been some sort of acted display?"

"Well, of course," he snapped matter of factly, and indulging my attempt to recoil, he lifted himself off of my shaking body and reached for his mask. "What else would it have been? I asked for a game of pretend, and you gave it to me. …And it was brilliant in its portrayal on your part. You very nearly had even my most rational of senses convinced that you truly wanted me, but I guess that when it is your future happiness hanging in the balance, you would venture to any extreme that you must…, even touching a monster."

I had curled into myself upon the couch's cushion, wrapping my arms protectively around my body as I watched him with wide, horrified eyes. "But you…you said you knew that I loved you and that you weren't going to let me leave with Raoul."

"The dramatic twist of plot," he insisted without waver. "Every decent opera must have a point of hopelessness and desperation before the final act. I sought to provide one for you."

"No, no," I was muttering, feeling the warm tears as they traveled down my cheeks. Everything I just believed to be true…, all a lie…. And it sickened me because I had done this. I had destroyed this man so completely, had trampled over his heart so thoroughly, and then on top of that, I had been the one to pose a game of pretend love. He was incapable of believing me, and it was all by my own doing.

"Christine," he called with a snap, his temper rising and tightening the line of his jaw, "whatever is wrong with you? You'll get your happy ending just as you wanted. I don't understand. This was initially your idea. To give me some supposedly happy memory to cling to when you are gone. Isn't that right? And this scene just now was my very fantasies brought to life." Shrugging off melancholy and replacing it with apathy, he retorted, "You've become such a wonderful little actress; your disgust was so well-hidden that I never even caught a glimpse of it."

I was sobbing by then, but what could I have argued with him anyway? Any word I said would have been considered a further part of the game I wasn't playing. Dear God, my heart was aching in my chest, and this time when courage tried to make me fight back, I succumbed to weakness instead. Staggering to my feet, I fled that room and never looked back, knowing one more look in those eyes would destroy me.

Worse than dreaming that one was a hollowed out shell was dreaming that one was unwanted in spite of baring heart and soul and practically having her future in her hands. It took me a long, horrific moment upon arising in my bed to realize that that hadn't been a dream at all. No, that was my reality.

Replaying the events over and over in a continuous loop in my brain seemed inevitable as if should I consider hard enough, I could find something, anything that would have convinced him that we were still playing a game. I had thought that he had understood that the game had been ridiculous, an excuse to lie to myself. And every act in between…, how could he have not seen my heart in my eyes and my love for him as prominently displayed as his? That was when I came to one decided revelation; I had given him his heart's desire by loving him in return, but Erik preferred the easier path of loving what he believed he could never have. It was less painful to let me go and suffer a broken heart than to love me and have to believe that I spoke true to love him back; that meant losing control in another game where he'd always been the one deciding every role.

I had no doubt in my conclusions, and I found myself obsessively pondering what I was going to do about it. I could let us both take our easier paths; I could leave with Raoul and grant Erik the future he'd believed he'd have, alone and suffering. _Or_ I could attempt to put us upon the more difficult path where we attempted to love each other as best we could. The answer seemed obvious, but I knew the only way I could fix any of this was to find the courage I had been unable to hold onto; he deserved the truth and a woman who was convicted enough to follow its meandering turns.

Leaving my room in a haste, I sought out my Erik, and when I came upon him in the music room idly skimming through an opera score, I took the unnoticed moment to stare at him, to condition myself to the sheer power that was carried within the invisible aura always surrounding him, to gaze at that masked face and recall scars and how delightful they actually were to the touch.

Erik might have been aware of my presence all along because when he raised his eyes to me, all I saw was forced apathy. "Good morning. And what roles are we undertaking today so that I may know how to properly greet you? Will it be amicable companions or bitter enemies? I daresay that we've tired out lovers, don't you agree?"

I never bothered to answer; in four quick steps, I closed the distance between us, leaving him little choice but to ignore his music and face my approach, half in confusion. Good, I concluded; let him be confused; let him wonder at the suddenly strong girl before him; let him ponder her very existence.

I was resolute. Without pause, I caught that infernal mask in my hand, curving my fingertips along its shape and drew it away without protest save that continued stare of confounded bewilderment. Tossing the mask aside and reveling an instant in his true face, I eagerly grazed a caress to its odd contours before leaning on tiptoe and catching his rise of astonishment in an undeterred kiss. A kiss for the survival of my heart; that was how I saw it, and as such, I did not choose coy or demure. I followed passion's urging and poured desire into its construction. My tongue sought his, and my taste buds tingled deliciously with his taste, yearning to know only that flavor for the rest of eternity. Despite Erik's seemingly calm acquiescence to my fervent display, he imitated my motions, and I thrilled from head to toe, clutching his face between my desperate hands, cupping scars and cupping perfection as if they were equal halves. Deeper, deeper, how I ached to drown!

But so suddenly that I did not expect it, his hands caught each of my wrists and pried my touch away, drawing my rigid and struggling limbs behind me to pin them fixedly to the small of my back.

"No, don't," I whimpered urgently, trying only to kiss him again, but keeping my arms immobile, he forced me further from him with an abrupt pull.

"What has gotten into you?" he demanded curtly, but even if he wanted to seem unaffected by my forwardness, he could not force away the harsh hoarseness upon his voice as a tattling telltale for what he really felt.

"I love you," I admitted without hesitation, reveling in the power those three simple words possessed, and try as he might for detachment, I saw that fierce intensity of their combination strike him as well, chipping a dent into his iron shield of armor.

And so I used their might again. "I love you, Erik; I love you."

"Christine, …I conceded to play your game yesterday, no matter how bitterly cruel it actually was to imagine a love story with you; I have not the strength left to continue it for even another minute."

"No, this is _not_ a game, Erik; this has never been a game. You know that, but you're afraid to believe it." I wanted my hands free, so sure that if I could touch him, I could assure him, but he never let loose, clasping tighter yet to my struggles. He wanted only words and only a truth I was suddenly eager to give him.

"Christine, if you are lying to me still-"

"No," I interrupted with a desperate shake of my head. "Erik, please just listen to me. …I haven't loved you the way I should have. I pushed you away, and I denied your heart even as it has always been so pure and transparent with what it has felt. I envy that; you've always been confident with what you've wanted. You offered me the most incredible love time and time again, and I shunned you and ran from you. I hurt you so much, but you loved me still." I couldn't tell if my admissions were having any effect; he was so determined to be guarded, only staring at me with the power of those eyes and a sense of emotionless self-protection.

"And what if I told you that I intended to take you back to the Vicomte this morning?" he demanded, studying me so intently for any response to merely the mention of Raoul. "That I was going to let you free entirely without consequence to have your ending, Christine? What will you say then? I pray you retract every word you just spoke; I will not hold you accountable. We can be on our way in minutes to the de Chagny estate, and I can give you your happiness."

"No," I declared without waver, "no, I will only tell you once again that I love _you_, and I will beg you not to make me leave you." There were flickers of hesitancy in accepting my honesty, and I had to make myself recall just how tortured his life had been to create such vibrant skepticism like another unfading scar. As a final desperate plea, I asked, "What can I do to prove that I love you?"

"Marry me," he declared back flatly, still looking for a crack in my countenance.

But I only nodded without pause, smiling with a wave of relief and replying, "Yes."

That visibly shook him and startled away any apathy he was encouraging, and when he finally let my answer register, he shook his head and intentionally pushed, "Today. Now, in fact."

"Yes."

"Marriage is binding, Christine," Erik continued to insist. "Permanent. You can't change your mind again when you suddenly come to realize _who_ exactly you have committed yourself to."

"I know _who_ I am committing myself to, and I have no doubts, Erik. _I love you_," I adamantly said. It felt so unfamiliar to be grinning after what had seemed to be so hopeless of a situation, but I couldn't keep its shape from my lips, practically beaming to almost be holding my heart's desire in my hands.

"And…and last night…," he stammered, seeking assertions that I readily gave with convicted nods.

"Last night was never a lie or a game. I loved you then just as I do now, and I meant every word I said. I want us to leave this place before Raoul ever comes; I never want to fear losing you. Please, Erik. That must convince you."

"I want so badly to believe you." The desperation was vivid across those mangled features, creating creases on an already tarnished surface. "And I wanted to believe you last night. My God, it was such a brilliant fantasy, wasn't it? Practically a fairytale brought to life…, but I learned long ago that I wasn't meant to know happiness, that I was cursed to suffer for my existence. And what worse torture is there than to believe you only to learn that it is a lie? I'd rather break my heart on my own terms."

"No, no, it's not a lie; it was _never_ a lie." I was staring at him, bearing into his eyes, willing him to see that my gaze could be just as powerful and moving as his when my conviction was behind it. "I love you. And I'll marry you and bind _you_ to _me_ so that you must be mine forever. There is nothing I want more. And I won't be afraid to make my choice if you won't be afraid to accept it. Please, Erik…. Pushing me away from you will break my heart as well."

My hands were still captive in his, and drawing me forward slowly, tentatively by that hold, he brought my body to his, clutching me to him with questions always playing in his stare. Was this tolerable? Would I deny him? Was I doubting? And hesitant yet, he lowered that disfigured face toward mine as I tilted upward to meet him, eager when his kiss found me. I knew he still bore suspicions, but I also knew that no matter what it took, I would make each and every one vanish, one at a time, day by day, until he had no other choice than to believe that I spoke true.

That night he didn't have a nightmare because he slept in my arms. …And I held him to me and whispered of my love to his peaceful features, hoping that my words permeated into his dreams and blessed him with happy images of our forever.

Realism told me that it couldn't be the fantasy…yet, but someday when he realized that I wouldn't leave him ever again, when we were away from this place that had only seen tragedy and still bore idle threats in the background, that was when fantasy and reality would meet and entwine and give us a happy ending. As he slept on, I clutched him to me with hands that would never let go, and for the first time, I considered myself strong and finally where I belonged.


End file.
